ambassador from the United States.”
Wexler rose. She paused for a moment, letting her outrage flood conviction into her voice. “As the delegates know, two days ago Iran executed an attack upon an American cruiser. Although the damages were minimal, this is completely unacceptable. Our ship was operating in international waters under the authority of a resolution passed by this very assembly. This attack not only is an attack upon my nation, but on the authority of the United Nations as well. If we are to be able to maintain peace in the world, work out grievances and disputes without the widespread bloodshed of the last century, then we must insist that the delegate nations abide by their agreements and our rulings.”
Then she stopped and surveyed the room to see how it was going down. A few nods here and there, other looks of consternation. The ambassador from the United Kingdom murmured a quiet, “Here, here,” that carried easily in the silent room.
“Therefore,” she continued, “I move that pending further measures, the United Nations immediately issue a condemnation of this unprovoked attack by Iran. Furthermore, we will require reparations.”
The Secretary General turned to the ambassador from Iran. “And your response?”
Wexler remain standing as the Iranian ambassador stood, as though she could by the sheer force of her presence force him to admit the truth. He glared across the room at her, and when he spoke, his voice was low and ugly. “We do not consent to any action by the United Nations. The attack was not unprovoked. The United States violated our security in a very real way, as these photos I’m passing out will show.” He motioned to an aide, who began distributing photographs along with accompanying text to the rest of the delegates. “When you examine the evidence, Mister Secretary General, you’ll see that it is not Iran who should be sanctioned — but the United States.” He paused for a moment to let his words sink in.
“However, since that is not a possibility, given that the United States has bought the goodwill of most of you, you will not take action. Therefore, in concert with her brothers in the area, Iran will settle its own scores.”
He dropped his microphone to the floor and stormed out. One by one, the delegates from the other Middle East countries followed him.
It was still dark out when the last aircraft was done. The Russian leader watched, feeling the inevitability of the future rushing toward him. There was a peculiarly fatalistic streak in most Russian psyches, and he was no exception. He did not want to die — how he did not want to die!
He contemplated the newly refurbished aircraft. Perhaps it was not much to look at — the finish was still rough, but a few coats of paint would have improved its appearance as well as its aerodynamic characteristics. Still, the engines were sound, the avionics working, and it would do for what the Iranians intended.
But what would happen when they were through ejecting the United States? Would hungry eyes turn northward, to the fertile planes of Ukraine? To Russia herself?
This project was a test of what the Arabs claimed was a new era of peaceful cooperation. Deal fairly with Russia and Russia would deal fairly with you. But betray her, and expect threefold results returned to you.
He summoned the shift leader to him. “Send a messenger. He will want to know we are done, even at this hour.” There was no question as to who he was. The shift leader’s eyes sought his out, anxious and afraid. “Perhaps you’re wrong.”
The leader forced a smile. “Perhaps I am.”
Just as the sun reached the horizon, two food service trucks pulled up to the hangar. They discharged huge tubs of iced vodka, vats of Russian caviar along with all the accompaniments. A staff car followed in short order, along with a troop carrier. Wadi emerged, smiling, very awake. He bowed and spread his hands expansively.
“You have done well — well beyond all expectations. My men are passing out a small token of our appreciation.” The soldiers moved among the crowd, handing out packages that contained thin strips of gold. The men gasped, awe on many of their faces. It was more money than they would see in their entire lives.
“Drink, eat.” Wadi pointed toward the groaning tables. “Each of you take a bottle and bring it with you. I wish to have a final picture to memorialize the new era existing between your country and mine.” The Russians swarmed to the buffet tables, helping themselves. Soon they were talking loudly, boasting, an eager flush of anticipation on each face.
“The photos,” Wadi said. He pointed at the horizon. “I would like you in three lines, facing the horizon, facing the new day.” Their spirits now buoyed by food and drink, the Russians followed the soldiers. They lined up in roughly three lines. Gromko remained behind to stand with Wadi, who was still smiling.
Wadi turned to him and said, “Several times now, you have asked me whether Iran has the military power and might to make a success of this plan. Have we pilots, have we the technology — your questions become tedious. I will demonstrate to you myself just how determined we are.”
With the Russian technicians watching, Wadi withdrew a pistol from his robe and shoved the nose against the Russian’s head. “Do you doubt me now?”
The Russian turned smiling and spat in the Arab’s face. Wadi pulled the trigger, and the Russian’s head disintegrated into a mass of blood, bone, and brains. A second later, the Iranian troops hosed down the technicians, then moved methodically through them, dealing final death shots to those who survived the onslaught.
When they were done, Wadi posed in front of the sprawled bodies for the official photograph. There would indeed be a memento to commemorate the new relationship.
Wadi walked into the operations center, the Russian’s blood still spattered on his robe. His aide offered him a damp, clean cloth without comment. Wadi wiped the remnants of brain tissue from his neck and face. He did not bother to try to remove the debris from his clothes.
He turned to his operations officer, and asked, “The submarine is in position?”
“Yes, sir. Exactly where she should be.” It was clear that the operations officer was shaken by his superior’s appearance.
Wadi nodded. “Have her linger near the straits,” he ordered. “The American battle group is doomed now.” He paused, shut his eyes for a moment and then nodded. “They have a saying… something about closing the barn door after the horse is out.” He smiled, his teeth stark white against his dark complexion. “Fortunately, it is not one of our proverbs. Instead, we shall let the horse into the barn then shut the gate behind it. You understand?”
“Of course.”
“Make sure she is well inside the Straits. Two hours after she passes our last checkpoint, perhaps. Then shut the gate. Permanently.”
When the message came, the submarine captain felt a surge of relief. The sooner they executed their mission, the quicker he could leave to a safer position. The water was barely one hundred feet deep, almost too shallow to keep the submarine entirely submerged. And around the straits, the heavy traffic posed a constant threat. He had been up all night, supervising the operations of the sonar suite and the officer of the deck as he dodged heavily loaded merchant ships inbound. Their draft exceeded the clearance.
“Two hours?” his second in command asked. He pointed at the tactical chart. “The American aircraft the
“Do that.”
“I’m satisfied that we have not been detected,” Bellisanus announced. He looked over at Powder and saw a nod of concurrence. “Let’s come up to communications depth and tell the carrier what’s going on. It wouldn’t hurt to have an update on the situation as well. The last I saw, it was going pretty smoothly.”
“Aye-aye, sir.” The XO turned to the officer of the deck, and listened as the order was relayed and translated into technical terms down to the planesman and helmsman.
